


Ally/Enemy

by draculard



Series: Comfortween [19]
Category: Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Bacta Tank (Star Wars), Hospitals, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Minor Character Death, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Or between Thrawn and Eli, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Noncon is not between Nightswan and Thrawn, medical treatment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27105151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: “Friend or foe?” the nurse asked.Nightswan didn’t know what to say. If he told the truth, they’d see to it that Thrawn was locked in cuffs when he awoke, and Nightswan didn’t want that; Thrawn was only a lieutenant, and it wasn’t like he’d done anything to deserve captivity, and after what he'd been through, waking up in cuffs might be the worst possible thing Nightswan could do to him. But if he lied, Thrawn would have full run of the place — with plenty of time to make observations and wreak havoc — and possibly do Nightswan or his allies harm.He thought again of what Angel had done in the prison cell.“Friend,” he said, pushing the consequences out of his mind.
Relationships: Nevil Cygni | Nightswan/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Angel, Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Eli Vanto
Series: Comfortween [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946224
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53
Collections: Comfortween 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Do Comfortween," I told myself. "It's just a bunch of oneshots," I said. "You are under no obligation to make any of them into multi-chapter works," I claimed.
> 
> >.<

He should have known Angel couldn’t be trusted.

Correction: he _did_ know Angel couldn’t be trusted, and he’d left him alone with the prisoners anyway, and now…

Now Nightswan scanned the room, his heart thudding and his stomach sinking. The doors were wrenched open, the durasteel crushed and decimated. A deactivated buzz-droid lay dormant next to the open — and empty — cell where Nightswan’s prisoners had once been. Angel’s body lay on the floor next to his feet.

And outside the cell, the only prisoner left behind was the Imperial prisoner Lieutenant Thrawn, who sat with his back against the bulkhead and his torn tunic pulled over his lap. His eyes were wide, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. 

He was naked, Nightswan noticed, his stomach twisting. He looked down at Angel’s body; after a moment, numbly, he turned Angel over and saw that his trousers were open at the fly. He stood up slowly, his mind racing, and met Thrawn’s eyes from across the room.

He took in the torn uniform bundled over Thrawn’s lap, allowing him some small amount of privacy. He studied the unnatural angle of Thrawn’s dislocated shoulder, the blood coating his mouth and chin, the way he kept one hand pressed closely to his ribs.

Nightswan steeled himself, letting his breath out in a hissing sigh. He heard his comlink flare to life with the belated warning from the bridge crew that his prisoners had escaped.

Across the room, unbelievably, Thrawn smirked at him in triumph.

And then shivered.

And then slumped to the floor as he passed out.

“Damn it,” Nightswan muttered.

* * *

His attention had already been caught by Thrawn the moment they met, if only because he was an alien and an officer in Palpatine’s human-centric Navy. His attention was caught again by the droid gambit that stole his prisoners away and now, as he steered Thrawn’s gurney into the makeshift medical bay at his base on Andovar, Nightswan’s attention was caught a third time by the fact that Thrawn — an Imperial officer, and the highest-ranking one of the party — had caught onto Angel’s anti-alien bias and used it against him, offering himself up as a distraction ( _as a sacrifice,_ Nightswan thought with a shudder) so his men and a group of civilians could escape. 

It didn’t fit with what Nightswan knew of Imperial officers. In fact, it didn’t fit with what he knew about people in general; he wasn’t sure he knew _anyone_ who would let Angel do what he’d done to save a group of coworkers and strangers, especially when those people were headed toward certain captivity, _not_ certain death.

He’d hit Thrawn with a low-battery stunner to keep him unconscious, and now that the stun was wearing off, the medics took over, checked Thrawn’s vitals, and stuck a needle in his vein to keep him asleep. Nightswan stood off to the side, watching for a moment as they got the bacta tank running.

“How long?” he asked the head nurse.

The nurse, an elderly Duros, checked his datapad and glanced in disinterest at Thrawn. “Be awake in twenty-four hours or so,” he said, his voice clipped. His eyes shifted to the torn Imperial uniform left behind on Thrawn’s gurney as the other nurses tended to him. “Friend or foe?” he asked.

Nightswan didn’t know what to say. If he told the truth, they’d see to it that Thrawn was locked in cuffs when he awoke, and Nightswan didn’t want that; Thrawn was only a lieutenant, and it wasn’t like he’d done anything to deserve captivity. If he lied, Thrawn would have full run of the place — with plenty of time to make observations and wreak havoc — and possibly do Nightswan or his allies harm.

He thought again of what Angel had done in the prison cell.

“Friend,” he said, pushing the consequences out of his mind.

The Duros nodded and moved away.

“Come back in twenty-four hours,” he said.

* * *

The next day, when Nightswan arrived in the medical suite, Thrawn was already awake and dressed in a set of borrowed civilian clothes. The cuts and bruises on his face were healed; he stood without assistance near the transparisteel window, looking out on the Andovar base with a blank face. 

He didn’t flinch when Nightswan joined him at the window. But when Nightswan put his hand on Thrawn’s shoulder, he found him so tense he was almost shaking. 

Almost.

“That was a pretty good gambit with the buzz droid,” Nightswan told him. After twenty-four hours, he hadn’t come up with anything better to say. Thrawn’s eyes hardened, his jaw tight as he took in the base’s operations.

“Do you intend to sell me?” he asked Nightswan, his tone as calm and conversational as if they were having a chat over breakfast. 

Nightswan’s heart rate kicked up. He kept his hand on Thrawn’s shoulder; instinct told him to obfuscate, to pretend he didn’t know what Thrawn meant, to get more information from him that way. But it didn’t feel right to do that here — now — with this specific person, after what Angel had done. He let his hand fall from Thrawn’s shoulder and forced himself to swallow his instincts and just tell the truth.

“We aren’t going to sell you,” he said. “We aren’t even going to hold you for ransom. You’re free to go.”

For a moment, Thrawn said nothing. He cast Nightswan a coldly appraising look.

“I killed your ally,” he said.

Nightswan’s mouth was dry. He looked away from Thrawn, out the window, where his men were readying the last of their supplies for transport. He hadn’t told them yet why the Andovar base needed to be abandoned. 

“He was my ally,” Nightswan acknowledged, inclining his head. “Not my friend. After what he did to you, I can’t say I’m sorry to see him dead.”

Thrawn’s eyes narrowed. “I am,” he said simply. When Nightswan looked at him in surprise, Thrawn’s eyes narrowed even further. “He was easy to manipulate and deceive,” Thrawn said. “He would have been a good source of information. With Angel alive, I could have possibly learned your destination and recovered the tibanna gas. With Angel dead…” He turned away from Nightswan, shrugging minutely. “If you truly allow me to leave, then I will return to my ship in disgrace. I find it likely Ensign Vanto has already made a truthful report of the situation.”

Nightswan studied him for a moment, absorbing his words and all the unspoken implications.

“You didn’t kill him on purpose, then?” he asked.

Thrawn’s jaw tightened; he refused to meet Nightswan’s eyes.

“I did,” he said. Then, quietly, “It wasn’t the most rational decision I’ve made.”

For a long moment, there was silence between them. Nightswan thought of the obstacles a non-human officer must face in the Imperial Navy; was this the first time Thrawn had been assaulted? Perhaps not, but it was almost certainly the first time that information had been made public in an official report. How would that change things for him? How would it impact his reputation, his career?

Nightswan’s mouth soured. He sneaked a quick glance at Thrawn — at the bacta-induced weariness in his face, at the way his hair fell over his forehead and his borrowed clothes hung off his frame. 

_Don’t ask,_ he told himself.

He took a deep breath and asked, anyway.

“Will you go back to the Empire?” 

Thrawn flinched at the question. He put his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed and calm and completely at odds with the hard expression on his face. He didn’t respond. 

“Will you?” Nightswan asked again, turning to face Thrawn fully. Thrawn’s eyes shifted over to meet his.

“You think I will let some minor embarrassment prevent me from pursuing my goals?” he said, his voice flat.

Nightswan hesitated, remembering the brief moment of panic in Thrawn’s wide eyes — the obvious wounds — and Angel’s open trousers.

“It was rape,” he said quietly. “Not some minor embarrassment.”

Thrawn’s expression changed slightly, but Nightswan couldn’t name what it became. “I was speaking of the mission’s failure,” he said, his voice dry. “Not your ally’s actions.”

Nightswan said nothing. He felt nauseated and unsure of himself — like he’d been put to sea without a boat. He thought over his own goals and convictions, nebulous as they were.

Would he ally with people like Angel again? Yes, probably. If their goals aligned with his. If their affiliations were right. 

But looking at Thrawn — remembering his buzz-droid gambit, the way he’d sacrificed himself to Angel to save his men — he thought he’d rather…

Well, it was pointless to think about it, Nightswan decided. There was nothing he could offer Thrawn except empty words and false comfort; for better or for worse, Nightswan suspected they were on opposite sides of a great divide — and one that could only grow deeper as time went on.

“Do you need a communicator?” he asked Thrawn.

The unreadable look Thrawn cast him said everything. Nightswan didn’t bother to ask him who he’d stolen it from, or how, or when. He only nodded.

“I trust you’ll wait till we’re gone, then, before you call them in?” he asked.

His hand lifted of its own volition, touching Thrawn’s sleeve. Thrawn moved away from him, not limping, not wincing. Perfectly healed.

Physically, at least, Nightswan supposed. Thrawn met his eyes with a flinty, brittle smile that reminded Nightswan of nothing more than a wounded animal baring its teeth.

“If I were you,” said Thrawn, his voice level, “I wouldn’t trust me to do anything.”

Nightswan held Thrawn’s gaze, both of them expressionless. Thrawn’s smile twitched, turning into a mask of cold fury; his shoulders were a tense line. With his eyes, he was compelling Nightswan to turn away, to go, to leave him alone so he could do whatever he thought was necessary now.

After a long moment, Nightswan nodded. He turned away.

He wouldn’t be forgetting Lieutenant Thrawn any time soon, he suspected.

He doubted Thrawn would let him.


	2. Chapter 2

Eli knocked once on the door to Thrawn’s hotel room, not really anticipating an answer. Lately, it had been harder and harder to get a hold of Thrawn via comm; whether the silence was deliberate or not on his part, that was why Thrawn had given him a copy of his room key. Eli used it now, stepping inside as the doors slid open.

Thrawn’s room was nicer than his own, he noticed with some relief — it meant the ISB, at least, wasn’t playing the same vicious game the Navy was. He found Thrawn standing with his back to the door, wearing his dress uniform and gazing with hooded eyes at the art holos projected all around him.

At least, that’s what Eli _thought_ he was doing. When he circled around the holos, he saw that Thrawn wasn’t actually studying them at all. His eyes were fixed on a point in the middle distance, glazed and far away.

“Sir?” Eli said. 

Thrawn’s eyes flickered, coming to focus on Eli slowly.

“It’s time to go,” Eli told him, gesturing to his chrono. “Colonel Yularen—”

“Right,” said Thrawn at once, his voice crisp. He flipped the holopod’s power switch and the holos faded out of existence, leaving the room darker than before. 

As they walked together toward the turbolift, Eli realized with a sinking heart that it was going to be one of _those_ days. He could always tell quickly, by these little silences that set in between them. Thrawn was a non-stop talker; if he wasn’t asking Eli question after question, he was explaining how something worked or giving him a lecture on military strategy and art — so when they stepped into the turbolift and neither of them said a word, Eli knew something was wrong.

 _Something_.

As if he didn’t know exactly what.

He glanced sideways at Thrawn, who stood with his back straight and an expression of distant thoughtfulness on his face. Briefly — just for a moment — Eli remembered watching from inside the prison cell as Angel tore Thrawn’s tunic and spread his legs.

He forced the memory to the back of his mind. Angel was dead now; Thrawn _wasn’t_ dead, though there had been a few days back there when Eli thought for sure he must be. As soon as they got past this (frankly ridiculous) court-martial, the whole incident would be behind them. 

Eli shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. This court-martial — the parties Yularen had scheduled them to attend — it all seemed so unnecessarily cruel. Thrawn had rescued the prisoners, he’d recovered the tibanna gas, and he’d even uncovered two separate anti-Imperial bases — one at Andovar, abandoned, and one at Haxei III, where scores of pirates, smugglers, and terrorist organizations had been caught before they could flee, their equipment captured before it could be scuttled. 

At this point, it seemed like the only real purpose of the court-martial was to humiliate Thrawn. The bare facts of what had happened were already public, thanks to Rossi, who’d leaked Eli’s report almost immediately after Thrawn made his way back to the ship. ‘Non-human Imperial officer assaulted by human in anti-Imperial terrorist cell — that’s what the headlines said. Coruscant was having a field day with it, and Eli suspected High Command was doing its part to fan the flames. For them, it was an unanticipated gift; more liberal-minded planets were constantly accusing the Empire of anti-alien bias, and now, for perhaps the first time in recent memory, the Empire had the chance to turn the spotlight back around on Rebel sympathizers.

So in some circles, Thrawn was the poor alien who’d been raped by a xenophobic pirate — making him an Imperial martyr. In other circles, the ones that sipped their drinks and sneered at him from the sidelines of each Ascension Week party, he was something worse:

The alien officer who’d gotten what he deserved.

The alien officer who got taken down a peg.

The alien officer who was no longer untouchable. 

And … well, it was easy to blame Rossi, but Eli knew the blame lay at least partially with him. He couldn’t help it; every time he glanced Thrawn’s way, he was overcome with stinging guilt. The quiet harassment that used be nothing more than background noise had amped up tenfold since Thrawn’s return; people who used to only whisper behind his back now approached Thrawn openly in the galley or in the locker room, making no attempt to hide what they were doing behind a veneer of respect.

And Eli was the one who’d put the unnecessary details in his report. Eli was the one who’d made this private incident very, _very_ public.

And, Eli thought, glancing at Thrawn uneasily, he was the one — the _only_ one — who’d actually seen it happen. Just for that, if for nothing else, any normal person would have distanced himself from Eli, but their circumstances — Eli’s assignment as Thrawn’s aide, and now the court-martial — made that impossible. 

He studied Thrawn pensively, trying not to think about what had happened. Thrawn glanced his way, caught Eli looking at him, and quickly turned away again, his face darkening.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Eli. He knew Thrawn could read his face to tell what he was thinking. 

“No apology necessary,” said Thrawn, keeping his eyes forward. His tone was light and unreadable. 

“I didn’t mean to—”

“We have a long night ahead of us,” Thrawn said mildly, checking his chrono. “Save your energy for the party, Ensign.”

Translation: _Don’t speak to me again._ Thrawn had been saying that without _actually_ saying it an awful lot lately.

The turbolift doors opened, letting Thrawn and Eli out into the hotel lobby. From there, they traveled directly to the ballroom where Colonel Yularen was waiting for them. 

The worst part, Eli thought, was that this all could have gone away so easily — for Thrawn, at least. He’d returned to the Blood Crow without any injuries. He could have so easily told Rossi that Eli’s report was untrue, or even just mistaken; he could have used his lack of injuries as proof. Instead, he’d willingly confirmed Eli’s version of events and submitted to a rape kit in the Blood Crow’s medical bay, where a droid had confirmed the presence of recently-healed scar tissue and trace amounts of bacta.

So things had gotten even more complicated for Thrawn. He now had to explain not just where he had been after the rape but who had healed him … and he could have avoided the whole humiliating mess by saying Eli lied.

Only he hadn’t. He hadn’t been willing to damage Eli’s career like that.

And Eli felt even _more_ guilty as a result.

* * *

In a large ballroom such as this, where the party line was sympathy for Thrawn’s plight, there was no danger of being touched beyond a simple handshake or, at most, a hand on his shoulder, a hand on his arm, a hand on his lower back. 

Tactically, it would be unwise — or even more likely, devastating — for any of the politicians here to vent their desires. If Thrawn had been untouchable at the Academy, he was even more untouchable now — a nonhuman, an officer, a native of a region of little respect, and now…

A martyr. Ensign Vanto had confirmed that was, more or less, the proper term, although he added a caveat: martyrs are supposed to die.

 _There are many types of deaths,_ Thrawn thought, greeting the Senator of Athulla with a smile. 

At the Academy, he had been a test for the human cadets. As he was untouchable, they had to learn to touch him in subtle ways — to touch him without being punished, or losing the respect and support of their peers. But the cadets ranged in age from sixteen to twenty-two; they were human adolescents; they were children playing childish games.

The politicians here were adults. Their games were more complex.

The Senator smiled back.

“We could certainly use more men like you in the Navy, Thrawn,” she said. 

Like many of the civilians here, she eschewed his rank, a subtle sign of disrespect which, due to her civilian status, neither Thrawn nor Ensign Vanto could protest against without seeming unreasonable; she could always claim ignorance of military customs, in any case. Still, Ensign Vanto’s arms stiffened in his sleeves and his facial heat intensified, signifying discomfort and anger with the Senator’s words.

She touched Thrawn’s hand. Her fingers closed around his; her palm pressed against his palm, her body temperature slightly warmer than average. Although she mimicked the proper posture for a handshake — spine erect, shoulders relaxed, not leaning toward Thrawn in the slightest, arm extended and elbow slightly bent — her grip was soft and gentle, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. 

“Courageous men,” she clarified.

Thrawn allowed her to hold his hand, both of them pretending it was a simple greeting. He showed no signs of discomfort. He could see from her eyes that she was not attracted to him; he could see from her facial heat that she was aroused nonetheless, by forcing him to hold her hand.

“It was brave of you,” she continued, “to come forward the way you did. Few men would be willing to publicize an attack of that nature.”

Her voice was superficially sincere, sympathetic. Thrawn brushed his thumb over her knuckles in return and waited to speak until the Senators from N’Zoth and Atrisia were within hearing range.

“It was indeed,” he said, his voice neutral. “In many sectors there are no legal protections for non-human survivors of sexual assault. Colonel Yularen tells me there are some planets where the perpetrator goes unpunished, while the victim is sentenced to certain lengths of imprisonment due to local legal restrictions on cross-species relationships.”

The Senator’s lower eyelids twitched upward; her lips thinned slightly as she stopped herself from frowning. Her palm went still against Thrawn’s a moment before she drew away.

Nearby, the Senator from N’Zoth was watching with a smile. 

The night wore on. Yularen kept Thrawn informed on the necessary details — the names and positions of the people condescending to him, vague outlines of their political careers — and in each case, Thrawn allowed his demeanor and opinions to shift, conforming to each new opponent or ally’s beliefs, prejudices, goals, in whichever way seemed best to maneuver them into where they needed to be.

For the politicians hailing from proudly Imperial and blatantly pro-human worlds: embarrassed/eager to deflect attention from their planet’s transgressions; eager to find a painless method to show support for a nonhuman now, while it was beneficial, without simultaneously alienating their staunchly pro-human constituents.

For the politicians from more progressive worlds, too, this was a vital chance to highlight their ignorance of the world beyond the Outer Rim — to remind them that they did not speak for all nonhumans — to highlight the Empire’s humanitarian efforts and, indeed, Thrawn’s own efforts, for which he was currently facing court-martial. 

For both, it was typically essential to play up his nonhuman characteristics as much as possible. He asked Ensign Vanto for translations; he let his accent slip; he played his part perfectly, in short, and manipulated most everyone he spoke to into taking up his cause. He could sense Yularen’s approval; he could see Vanto’s quiet, chagrined surprise as he realized just how much of Thrawn’s behavior at the Academy had been feigned.

He said what was necessary to the Senators.

But what he wanted to say — viciously, irrationally — was something outrageous, something so malicious that it burnt them, something to make them recoil from him and leave him alone.

Something like, _I enjoyed it._

Something like, _I gave my permission, didn’t I? Doesn’t that constitute consent? You read the report. You saw what Ensign Vanto said. I unbuttoned his trousers myself._

Something like, _He wasn’t the only one who came_ ; something like, _I’d like to do it again_ ; something like, _At night, when no one else is there_ —

“Sir.”

The voice was soft. Ensign Vanto’s grip on his forearm was firm.

“Ensign,” Thrawn said; he did not glance down at the hand on his arm, but he turned his arm slightly, rotating it in an effort to break Vanto’s grip. His eyes narrowed when Vanto did not let go. On his other side, surreptitiously, Colonel Yularen stepped up beside him, using the brush of his sleeve against Thrawn’s tunic to subtly guide him toward the door. In a low voice, with his lips barely moving, Yularen said,

“Let’s find you a place to sit down.”

Glancing at Ensign Vanto, Thrawn found him biting his lip in poorly-concealed concern. They did not speak again until they were out of the ballroom, down several corridors, approaching a plush bench set firm against the wall with no one in sight.

Only then did Yularen take Thrawn’s other arm. Both men firmly guided him to the bench.

“I’m fine,” Thrawn said, his voice steady. 

“You’re shaking, sir,” Vanto said.

Distantly, Thrawn could still hear the noise from the ballroom. He sat when they forced him to, but only so their too-warm hands would release their grip on his arms. He sat with his back straight, with his eyes straight ahead, with his face impassive. 

_Untouchable,_ Vanto had called him once.

He stared down at his trembling hands and smiled.


End file.
